The dragon reared its long, skinny neck, and Rafen started. Once its tapered face was level with Rafen’s, it merely gazed with opaque, glassy eyes at him, as if divining what kind of person he was. It playfully nuzzled his chest.
With the dragon following, Rafen slipped back between the monoliths, thinking about Sirius. How far could the Pirate King control the path of his kesmal? Two leginis? Four?
Perhaps Sirius was so free with Rafen during the day because his kesmal could always find him.
Chapter Eight
Unexpected
Guests
“Hold ’is neck,” Marius suggested, “and look down his throat.”
His words had all Sirius’ burrs and rounded, dark vowels, but none of Sirius’ authority. Marius was the quietest spoken of the “traveling players”, and Rafen had grown to trust him. His lank, dark brown hair hung below his chin, and his nose was prominent and pointed, swallowing the rest of his face in its significance. Beneath the curl of anxious eyebrows, his eyes were small.
At Marius’ suggestion, Rafen shook his head and returned to the map of Rusem in his hand. He was trying to refine an emergency plan he had in case things went wrong there. The wagons were moving on again, and this time Rafen was traveling with the men. At the head of Rafen’s wagon, Sirius drove the ponderous Clydesdale horses. Even with a pipe in his mouth, he was managing to whistle. Rafen was amazed he didn’t die of an asthma attack.
The gray-blue dragon was still making a horrible rattling noise, hitting its snout against the floor of the uncovered wagon. The barrels and chests near it shook.
“’e’s got something in his throat,” Marius said, tugging at the loose red tie he wore around his neck to indicate strangling. He leaned back against the wagon edge and chewed tobacco.
“Why don’t you get it out then?” Rafen said.
Marius smiled broadly at Rafen and closed his eyes. The sky was foamy with white clouds, and the warmth of the sun spoke of summer.
As the dragon prepared to strike its head a fourth time, Sirius’ whistling stopped with a growl.
“Hoy!” he bellowed, without turning. “Fix the dragon or I’ll pistol someone.”
He puffed at a furious rate. Recalling Sirius’ kesmal, Rafen pried open the dragon’s mouth. The creature gargled. Rafen froze, anticipating an outburst from Sirius. Sirius’ pipe stuck out stiffly when he clenched his jaw in frustration.
Rafen stared into the dragon’s narrow maw. Praying to Zion he wouldn’t come out of this looking like Wilkins, Rafen pulled the lower jaw further down and put half his head inside. With disquiet, he noted the two rows of pyramid-like teeth. The blotched purple mouth funneled down into a throat with a ridiculously small circumference. Something suspiciously like a chess piece was wedged there. The dragon surged forward, and Rafen tore his head out as it snapped its mouth shut and dived for the wagon floor. When Rafen seized its neck, the dragon made an ear-splitting, crunching noise like that of a cart rolling over a brick. The wagon ground to a halt. The dragon retched. A clinking on the wooden floor told Rafen the chess piece had come free after all, encapsulated in a great glob of bluish saliva.
Marius opened one eye and nodded. “Looking down there always does it. That’s what Oram does. Gave you the dragon to care for because ’e was sick of it eating the wrong things probably.”
He said an oath that was nothing to what Sirius was muttering.
“You’ll have to take my pipe from my throat next,” he growled. “Keep that thing in working order.”
Rafen nodded, fighting down a laugh.
Sirius faced the front again and flicked the reins. “Rusem ho,” he said casually.
“Here’s to that!” Stalim the jester shouted from behind, where he drove one of the covered wagons. The other one was much farther behind. One-eyed Harmal was driving it, and a wheel had gotten stuck in a rut and come off. Sirius’ response to this was to laugh hoarsely and plod on past, theatrically pretending to whip his horses to shreds to win a nonexistent race. Harmal was left to commune with the bison.
His heart thrumming with excitement, Rafen glanced up from the dragon to see what Sirius had observed. A layered, cubic city blocked out a third of the northern horizon.
The battle for Siana was about to begin.
*
“Look down there,” Sirius told him.
Rafen glanced down the dirt incline of blue grama he stood on. A sea of merchants assembled outside the city.
“Rusem,” Sirius said, “the second biggest city to New Isles. No one wants to spend the night under Tarhian guard, birdie, so they sleep under the stars like us. I’ll bet you at least one third of those men are mine, by Gor. We’ll win the city.”
“Will I give the signal tomorrow?”
Sirius refilled his pipe. “Yes. You’ll give the signal, and the next day, we’ll all fight. Now, how are you going to get in without the Tarhians at the gate seeing you?”
Even though he had already thought about this and had an answer ready, Rafen contemplated the city. Unlike New Isles, Rusem was square, not octagonal. The walls were entirely stone rather than wood, and towers situated along them provided a place for squads of men to watch. The city was terraced within, so that even above the four story walls, the russet peaked roofs of the nobility’s houses were visible. In contrast to New Isles’ double gate, Rusem’s gate was uncommonly small: merely one large, arched doorway, good only for bottlenecking the city’s vast traffic. Thirty Tarhian men in arms were beetled around it.
“I’ll jump in a covered wagon.” Rafen indicated the purple, white, and beige ones below. They looked like piebald bubbles on the yellowed grassland outside the city.
“Clever bird.” Sirius blew a long ribbon from his pipe and glanced back at his men, who were setting up camp.
The dragon, nicknamed Pebble by Marius, slithered up to Rafen and nudged his arm.
“If they search your wagon,” Sirius said, “hide in the wares or turn it on the driver.”
Rafen looked at him questioningly. “You mean, blame it on the man on the perch?”
“Exactly. ‘Herbert told me to hide, so you wouldn’t find out about the weapons.’ Improvise, boy, and then get out.”
Rafen nodded. Momentarily, his conscience twitched at the idea of implicating some other man in his and Sirius’ troubles. He put his hand to his phoenix feather and reminded himself they were fighting for Siana. Sirius was going to win the country back. And after they had won the city, Rafen would contact Sherwin, Etana, and Francisco. He would find some parchment, a dove, and ink.
“Tell me what the signal is,” Rafen said, making a sharp move. Pebble snuffled as his heavy head was dislodged from the crook of his arm.
“Here’s the fun part,” Sirius said, savoring his “r”. A steady stream of smoke dribbled over his long lips as he spoke. “Go to Stalim for a broken slapstick, all stick and no slap, and take Wilkins with you.”
Sirius fumbled in his coffee-colored robe, which smelled like old tobacco, ale, and musty rosemary. He retrieved the skull from a large, hidden pocket and pressed it into Rafen’s hands.
“See where Wilkins’ neck used to join up at the base of the head? It’s hollow, right, birdie?”
Rafen turned the skull over, staring at the stained brown interior.
“You slot your stick in there, and off you go. Take this.” He produced a panflute from another pocket. “Just blow on it.”
“Now?” Rafen said, moving Wilkins into one hand and taking the panflute with the other. Pebble stared with glassy eyes at the skull.
“Nay, next year, birdie,” Sirius said. “By Gor!”
Shrugging, Rafen raised the panflute and blew. A tremendous screech sounded, seeming to emanate from the heavens. Silence fell over the merchants below; Rafen assumed they awaited the landing of the killer bird. Behind him, Sirius’ camp had become deafeningly quiet. Rafen looked over his shoulder. The one-eyed man was frozen, a dirty tankard halfway to his lips. Stalim the jester
, in flaming hosiery, had broken a string on his lute.
Sirius swore profoundly through gritted teeth. He released his pent up breath, and smoke unfurled from the bowl of his pipe.
“Gor, it’ll attract enough attention. Practice. Tonight.”
“I can’t play it,” Rafen pointed out, still grasping the smooth little panflute. He looked appealingly at Stalim.
“Ach, go hang yourself,” he suggested.
“I play.” Sirius gazed into the distance. “Sit down a moment.”
Rafen sat down, laying Wilkins in his lap. He looked around for the comforting presence of Pebble, but the dragon had taken one of his short-lived, low flights at the sound of the disturbed panflute. Pocket gophers scuffled in the dirt somewhere nearby.
Sirius removed his pipe, placed two fingers on Rafen’s chin, and pulled his jaw open, thrusting the chewed-up stem between Rafen’s teeth. Rafen inhaled and started coughing.
“Deeply,” Sirius said. “Like you’re going to play.”
Rafen breathed from his abdominals as Sirius began. The music was a wolf’s cry, a gray plume that mingled with the smoke of the bitter tobacco, a whisper and a howl at the same time, a whirl that broke down to a whimper and then a sob. The men behind Rafen now continued their activities, sorting through chests of costumes and weapons Sirius had brought; tipping out old soup; making fires; and pitching the shark-smelling tent. They were used to Sirius’ music… but it had licked Rafen’s heart raw. He suddenly remembered Erasmus, and with him Bambi, Torius, Mary, and others he had seen who had passed into the shadowy land the panflute’s notes penetrated. Abruptly, Rafen missed his mother.
He decided the water in his eyes was a result of smoke. He removed the pipe from his mouth and went into helpless spasms, retching.
“Deep, deep,” Sirius said.
Rafen took a shuddering breath.
“You must breathe into the panflute,” Sirius said, “rather than blast into it, boy.”
Sirius took the pipe from him and put it in his own mouth. He passed the panflute to Rafen and arranged his hands on it.
“Hold it to your lips; make a small, thin opening,” Sirius said. “Yes, birdie. Now exhale. Gently, by Gor!”
He exclaimed this last bit at the beginnings of another world-stopping screech. Rafen lessened his airflow, and a full, mellow sound resulted.
“Now I’ll teach you the notes,” Sirius said through his pipe, “and how to tune the thing. One song will do for tonight.”
By eleven o’clock, Sirius had finished with Rafen. Rafen could play one song, something between a poignant peasant lay and an unusually subdued shanty. He still had no idea what the point of walking around with a skull on a stick and playing a panflute was. Sirius never explained his mysteries.
“Wait,” Rafen said, “what if the Tarhians have descriptions of me? What if everyone knows what I look like?”
“You’re about to find out that doesn’t matter, birdie. I’m telling you, I’ve outnumbered the Tarhians already. Anyone who attacks you will be done for.”
Sirius rose to leave Rafen, then stooped suddenly, removing his empty pipe from his mouth.
“Be my heir,” he hissed in Rafen’s ear.
Rafen started and looked up. The swishing of Sirius’ coffee-colored robe told him the old pirate was already gone.
Rafen laid the panflute in his lap next to Wilkins and stared ahead at the deep, velvety night.
Had he heard Sirius correctly?
*
Rafen stirred. He had fallen asleep where he sat, staring at Rusem. It was an hour before sunset. The sky was a profound, blackened purple. Down the small slope, the cubic city loomed ominously out of the gloom. Waves, bumps, and pinpricks in the sea of shadows were the wagons, horses, and tents of merchants who waited to begin conducting business. The air was chilly, even though it was spring.
“Get Sirius,” Stalim spat savagely to someone.
Though most of the men lay asleep, Stalim, Marius, and Oram were clustered together, Stalim clutching his lute and staring at the darkness south of the camp.
Two lanterns swinging there illuminated the figures of horses and riders. Rafen’s hands grew sweaty. Had the Tarhians discovered them? While Sirius had said their disguise as players would keep them safe, Rafen knew if these were philosophers, they may already have had a description of the Fledgling or Wolf from the Lashki Mirah, and a warrant for his death.
“I tell you,” Oram muttered in his thick accent, “he in tent—”
“Drunk,” Marius whispered.
“Get him, you fool,” Stalim said in his reedy voice.
Marius’ normally anxious face grew more so. He squinted with tiny eyes at Stalim, as if solving a difficult calculation. Oram kicked Marius’ lower leg with a club-like foot, and Marius stumbled sideways toward the shark-smelling tent.
“I trust some explanation will be given,” a young Ashurite male said.
His elongated figure, partially lit by the lantern he carried, wove through the sleeping forms on the ground.
“Why explanation?” Oram said aggressively. “Many men sleep outside city with no explanation.”
“In Smitton, the authorities were given an interesting description of some… suspicious players.” The Ashurite halted before Oram. He was the Zaldian’s height, though much skinnier, with the result that he looked like a wisp of smoke before the well-built foreigner. “I thought it was best to investigate. Something about a man with a bald head and gold hoop earrings. I trust no one like that has been seen nearby.”
An inarticulate yell from the tent sent Marius staggering out of it hurriedly.
“Where is he?” Stalim hissed.
“Won’t come,” Marius murmured, cringing before the jester, the Zaldian, and the Ashurite.
I have to speak to them, Rafen realized grimly. I’m supposed to be joint leader here.
It was dark, and if Rafen was smooth at lying, perhaps no one would think he was himself. Concealing the panflute in his clothes, he gripped Wilkins with one hand and rose. Feeling like he was walking to his own execution, Rafen approached the little group of men, trying not to trip over the odd jug, tankard, or boot on the ground. Marius was halfway toward Rafen when he realized calling him wasn’t necessary. He nodded at him, relieved.
“Who is this?” the Ashurite demanded, shining the lantern in Rafen’s eyes.
Rafen squinted, reminded of the guards in Talmon’s coal mine. He kept his head low, so that the man didn’t get a good look.
“I’m the leader’s representative,” he said.
When he glanced at Stalim and Oram, he saw in their hard eyes the knowledge that had only visited him tonight: that Rafen was Sirius’ heir, his second in command, his Chosen. This was what Sirius had hoped to get out of their collaboration.
The Ashurite scanned Rafen with large, luminous eyes. Like most Ashurite men, his black hair was long and knotted. He had sallow skin and overgrown fingernails.
“And what do they call you?” he said, reaching for Rafen with distended fingers.
Rafen stiffened, dropping the skull and moving his left hand to the sword at his right hip. The Ashurite noticed the movement and froze. The skull rolled to a stop at his feet.
“Weapons are forbidden unless you are in the service of the King Lashki,” he said. “Do you really want to fight a philosopher, child?”
“What do you want here?” Rafen said.
The Ashurite laughed softly. “I want information. What is your business here as players?”
“Entertaining,” Rafen said, making a sweeping gesture. “Some of the men do tricks. Others play music. One is our cook.”
“Whose skull is that?” the Ashurite said, indicating Wilkins at his feet.
“Ask him yourself,” Rafen answered.
The Ashurite delved into his cloak and whipped out a thin blade without a crosspiece. Marius recoiled in alarm, and even Oram stepped back, his face lit with suspicion. Unlike most Zaldians, Oram had been
born without kesmalic ability, and any such display frightened him. Stalim clutched his lute closely to his chest. Rafen’s hand gripped his hilt, aware that if he attacked now, he was only going to complicate matters. The whole thing might go away if he held his temper in check.
“Tell me, child,” the Ashurite said, holding the blade up between his and Rafen’s face, “is there a man in your camp with a bald head and gold earrings?”
“No,” Rafen said, unblinking.
Without moving the blade, the Ashurite said, “We are going to search this camp. If I find a man who fits that description, your head will be cut in two.” He stared at Rafen a moment longer before turning and calling in detached Vernacular to his riders, “Search camp. Now.”
A sudden, collected movement told Rafen two dozen men had descended uniformly. Their tall forms and horselike faces betrayed their Tarhian nationality.
Around him, the other pirates woke. Harmal and the gangly seventeen-year-old Jarvis rose and stood to the side as the Tarhians strode through the camp, stepping on clothes, dishes, and maps heedlessly. Jarvis nervously brushed dirt from his bright red pants and his brown leather apron.
A Tarhian with a particularly large head paused. He turned and faced Rafen. With sudden panic, Rafen recognized the jet black eyes, the brown hair painted silver by age, and the huge nose.
“You!” Mainte shouted in Tarhian.
Chapter Nine
The
Big Maggot
The other Tarhians froze, two of them near the opening of the shark-smelling tent.
Still grasping his lute, Stalim shook his head at Rafen.
“Two-three-seven, is it not?” Mainte said in Tarhian.
Rafen fought hard to keep any recognition from his face. The other Tarhians had likely received descriptions of him. Yet, it was dark, and they weren’t looking closely at a boy now. Only Mainte had paused, not needing a description to identify Talmon’s most notorious slave.
“I can’t understand you,” Rafen said, in an impossibly crisp Sianian accent. He moved toward Stalim.
“Stop!” roared Mainte. “I know who you are. Do you think you can trick me, two-three-seven? Still think you’re a prince? Check his ankle!”
Servant of the King (The Fledgling Account Book 3) Page 8
